Lebron James, Bristol Palin and Levi Johnston take heed: Shouting from the wrong 'platform' can bring a happy celebrity down

As the Diva was taking a sip of her freshly ground gourmet coffee earlier this week, she heard something so shocking, she sprayed java onto her polished marble countertop. No, it wasn't the news that BP had successfully capped the ruptured oil well. Bristol Palin was back in the arms of baby daddy Levi Johnston, the hockey stud from Wasilla, Alaska, with the good looks of a privileged jock in a John Huhgesian teen romp and, if interviews are any indication, the brains to match.

Us Weekly executive editor Caroline Schaefer announced on the "Today" show that not only had the estranged lovers reconciled after a bitter public feud -- which culminated in Levi trashing Sarah Palin's image as uber-mother, posing for Playgirl and shilling for the pistachio -- but were planning to wed. The 19-year-old bride-to-be, it was reported, would wear "Carolina Herrera" and "she would love Levi and little Tripp to wear camo vests."

Now aren't you glad you know that?

What made the story more tantalizing was the fact that Sarah Palin learned of the engagement the same time the country did -- when Us Weekly hit the shelves.

Why did Bristol spill such personal, charged news to a gossipy celebrity tabloid with more than a million readers?

Bristol wanted "a platform," to explain herself, Schaefer reported, and approached the magazine because she'd really wanted to get her message out. Well, that and the fact that the Alaskan Romeo and Juliet were paid by the magazine to pose for photos with their adorable towheaded son. But let's not be cynical.

Schaefer was almost somber relating the turn of events to Matt Lauer, as though she'd done a bit of selfless charity work rather than land a jaw-dropping scoop.

The whole affair ruined the Diva's appetite, forcing her to forgo her fresh seasonal berries atop steel-cut Irish oatmeal, and got her to thinking: Platforms belong on the Diva's feet or in her closet.

It's not that the Diva has an especially soft spot for Sister Sarah, it's that she's up to her fabulous Alexis Bittar lucite hoops with premature public declarations -- or PPDs.

At the risk of pouring salt on gaping head wounds, the hourlong ESPN special devoted to LeBron James' announcement of where he will play next season was a platform fit for a king. A recap: The 25-year-old basketball phenom delivered the blow that he was moving to South Beach, Fla., then, between commercials featuring him hawking energy water, fielded softballs from a guy on his payroll.

The stunt largely backfired, as pundits and regular Joes alike spanked the star for his hubris, "The Decision" becoming fodder for endless spoofs. One of the best features Steve Carell and Paul Rudd, wherein Carell announces his intention to dump Chili's for another restaurant chain ("I have decided I am going to take my appetite to the Outback Steakhouse.") Go to YouTube.com and search for "LeBron ESPYS."

Like Bristol, LeBron chose not to sit across from those who arguably deserved to hear the news before the rest of the universe, say like Cavs brass and owner Dan Gilbert. As a side note, not once during the interminable 60-minute broadcast did LeBron ever mention the mother of his two children. To date, we haven't a clue whether he consulted Savannah Brinson, or whether she was happy about the choice he'd made. We do, however, know that his mother was a significant consigliere, as he referenced her almost as many times as he said "um." But we'll let the Freudians sort that one out.

But the week's most spectacular example of PPD are the Gibson tapes, in which a man purported to be actor Mel Gibson hyperventilates as he heaps abuse on ex-girlfriend Oksana Grigorieva in a series of filthy telephone rants. (In an especially delicious moment, he blames her for bleeding him dry, whining about how he had to sell his box at Lakers games).

Someone, it seems -- who, who, who could it be? -- leaked those tapes to RadarOnline, which is why every media outlet from Gawker to the New York Times' op-ed page is posting them, playing them or commenting on them. For the record, Grigorieva claims she has "no idea" who released the tapes. Must've been the chauffeur.

Gibson deserves all the rotten publicity he's getting, but, for the sake of argument, let's say Grigorieva had something to do with the tapes surfacing. By opening that Pandora's box, she has drawn fire for being a scheming "gold-digger" who "set poor Mel up," or so say members of the insatiable virtual public.

Though the Diva is roasting marshmallows while listening to the man's self-pitying screeds, she can't help but think the Russian chanteuse, who bears a disturbing resemblance to the Octomom, might have done better to surreptitiously record the father of her baby, then take the smoking-gun evidence straight to the fuzz, before that sneaky limo driver could get his greedy hands on them.

The L.A. County Sheriff's Department will work to authenticate the recordings, which carry a voice strikingly like Gibson's all but admitting he hit Grigorieva while she held their baby, 8-month-old Lucia.

Platforms are fickle things. For years, Gibson, a hard-line Catholic, used his outsized celebrity to proselytize in his popular films. Now that that fame has turned corrosive, he risks losing more than his Lakers tickets.

In April, People magazine reported on the Gibson-Grigorieva break-up: " 'They just drifted apart,' says a close friend of the couple of the amicable split. 'They're both working hard on their careers and trying to raise a sweet baby together. They're still friends and they'll both raise Lucia together.' "

So much for the reliability of such platforms. Give me a pair of Jimmy Choos any day.

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